Thousands of people lined the approaches to Bournemouth to see
the finish of the first day’s lap of the Tour of Britain cycle race. Thousands
of necks were craned as the first bunch of competitors appeared from the
direction of Christchurch. There
were four of them together, pedaling like men possessed, hurling their light
machines over the tarmac during these last minutes of the grueling eighty-five
miles that they had covered that day. “Jack Jenkins is there!” shouted one
enthusiast. “And I see Don Payne right beside him!” yelled another of the
crowd, as the police checked the traffic from the side streets. Jack Jenkins,
captain of the Pericles team, was indeed there, and so was his keenest rival,
Don Payne, of the L.T.A. work team. They were racing neck and neck eager to win
the Yellow Jersey which would be given to the day’s winner. Leaders of teams
entered by Britain’s
leading cycle manufacturers, these two owed their position in the race to the
splendid co-operation that they had received from their team-mates. Teamwork at
its best was what often won road races for these champion cyclists. They would
have been the first to admit it, but now they were tussling it out between
them, along with Bellenger, of Belgium, and
Lognay, of Switzerland. The
Yellow Jersey looked like going to one of these four. Down the hill at fully
forty miles an hour they swept, then on to the last upgrade leading to the
finishing point. There was a strong headwind blowing in from the sea. The faces
of those four men showed the strain, for they had gone into the lead directly
they had passed Southampton, and
had been fighting it out ever since. All eyes were on the four leaders. Few
noticed the lone rider who had just come whizzing down the hill, his head well
over his handlebars. There was no lettering or manufacturer’s name across his
jersey. Black shorts and a white jersey trimmed with black was what he wore.
Long, lean with heavily muscled legs he was driving his all-black machine with
a fierce intensity that shot him past the crowd like a black bullet. It was as
if he had come from nowhere. Nobody knew who he was. Those who saw his face
noted that it was entirely expressionless. His unblinking eyes stared just
ahead of his wheel; his mouth was set in a firm line. A ripple ran the length
of his body each time he drove, piston fashion at the pedals and shot his light
machine forward.

“Who’s number seven?” asked many of the puzzled
spectators. “Look! He’s catching up on the leaders. He’s going faster uphill
than he did downhill!” The four leaders might have been standing still judging
by the way this mystery rider overtook them. It was true that they were not
expecting any further challenge from the rear, for when last they had checked
they had been fives minutes ahead of anyone else. Jack Jenkins had the shock of
his life when someone flashed past him on the outside when there was only
half-mile to go. He had been saving himself for the last four hundred yards,
intending then to make a decisive sprint. Now he called out his last reserves
of strength and was after the unknown rider. Don Payne saw his rival begin to
sprint, and met the challenge. The two foreigners did likewise. The bunched
four shot forward as though suddenly jet-propelled, but that rider in the
black-edged jersey was many lengths ahead of them. “He can’t be human!” panted
Don Payne to himself as he saw the mystery man’s lead increasing. “He couldn’t
go faster on a sprint track. A roar went up in the crowded square, and a
thousand handkerchiefs and hats were waved in the air. Number 7, the unknown
rider, was an easy first. To him would go the coveted Yellow Jersey and the
bonus of one minute to be deducted from his total time. Jack Jenkins came
second, and earned the thirty seconds bonus, while his old rival, Don Payne,
earned a fifteen seconds bonus for third place. The rest of the field came
streaming along the road from Christchurch. They
had heard the roar, and knew that the race was over, but not until they reached
the finishing post did they learn that the day’s honours had gone to Tom
Tetford, an unknown rider who had entered unbacked by any team or organisation.
His face was impassive as he accepted the congratulations of those around him.
Instead of talking to him, he was staring down the road to Christchurch, along
which would come the laggards in the race, and the procession of vans, service
lorries, and cars which brought the friends, handlers, mechanics, and others
attached to the competitors. “he’s a surly blighter!” muttered Jack Jenkins to
his team-mate, Dick Pringle. “I tried to shake hands with him, but he looked
right through me as though I wasn’t there. It’s peculiar that we didn’t notice
him before. He must have been at the back all day. I don’t think I’ve ever set
eyes on him before today.” Others were making similar remarks. All efforts to
get a smile from the victor, or to get an appreciative glance from him in
exchange for congratulations failed. One by one the competitors came in, and
without exception they were amazed by the result. Since midday everyone had
believed it lay between Jack Jenkins and Don Payne, with a threat of possible
trouble from the Belgian, Bellenger. Nobody had foreseen that an unknown would
shoot to the front at the last moment.

Those in the rear of the race told how Tetford had
suddenly put on a superhuman sprint this side of Lyndhurst, and
how he had shot away from them at a pace none of them could hold. They had
believed it to be a mere flash in the pan, and that he would burn himself out
within a mile or so, but here he was in Bournemouth, the
winner of the coveted Yellow Jersey. “Don’t you ride for anyone?” Duke Horner,
of the L.T.A., asked Tetford. “No!” replied the victor shortly, then he seemed
to tense and his lips parted. He had seen something turn the distant bend. Duke
Horner glanced in the same direction, and saw an all black motor caravan driven
by a small man in a coat many sizes too large for him. Beside him sat a short,
stout man whose oily skin and jet-black hair indicated that he was probably a
foreigner. His eyes were deep-sunken in his pale face, and almost lost under
his bushy eyebrows. The motor caravan stopped alongside Tom Tetford, and
without a word to either of those in front, he lifted his racing cycle through
the rear door and followed after it. The door slammed. The caravan moved on.
“Well, I’ll be busted!” exclaimed Duke Horner to another of his team-mates.
“Did you see that? Who was that oily looking blighter with the deep set eyes.”
“That’s Tetford’s manager,” said someone else. “I saw them together at the
start. They live in that caravan instead of going to hotels. I expect they’ve
arranged to park it somewhere for the night.” “Queer sort of set-up!” observed
Horner. “They didn’t even speak to one another. Tetford won the Yellow Jersey,
yet his manager didn’t even congratulate him!” “Don’t worry about it,” advised
his friend, linking arms. “It’s nothing to do with us. Tomorrow we’ll take good
care Mister Mystery Tetford doesn’t get his nose to the front. Come and have a
hot bath before you stiffen up.” Three or four local newspaper reporters and
photographers barred their way and asked where they could find the winner, Duke
Horner indicated the tail-end of the caravan as it turned the corner of the
street. “He’s aboard that, but he doesn’t want to talk to anyone,” said Horner.
“Standoffish is Tearaway Tetford!” “Tearaway Tetford!” exclaimed one of the
reporters scribbling. “That’s a good name for him. There’s a site for caravans
on some waste ground along the road. I reckon that’s where they’re bound. We’ll
catch up with ‘em presently. Now tell me, did you see the accident at Harvant,
when the Irishman got put out of the race?” It looked as though Horner and his
team-mates would not get their hot bath just yet.

THE MAN
WHO COULDN’T QUIT.

Over their evening meals the other competitors in the
Tour of Britain indulged in a good deal of speculation about the lone rider who
had carried off the day’s honours. Nobody seemed to know anything definite
about the young victor. He appeared to be no more than twenty-one, and would
have had a pleasant face but for that strangely intent stare of his and his
lack of expression. Some of them remembered they had noticed that he had not
even showed signs of strain during that last crazy spurt. His face might have
been carved from a block of wood. Officials were looking up entry lists and
verifying the fact that Tom Tetford had been the last competitor to enter the
Tour of Britain. Beyond the fact that his manager’s name was Van Vonder, little
more was known about Tetford. During the early evening a warning was sent round
that the start in the morning would be half an hour later than arranged. It was
something to do with police regulations, and the competitors did not grumble
because it would mean half an hour extra in bed. After a satisfying supper,
Jack Jenkins and Dick Pringle went for a walk along the undercliff. Returning
inland just as it was getting dark, they passed the site that the newspaper
reporter had mentioned and saw the black caravan standing in the middle of it.
Lights shone from the windows, but the curtains were drawn. Jack Jenkins pulled
up. “Tetford wasn’t around when they altered the time for tomorrow,” Jenkins
said. “Maybe he hasn’t heard. Let’s call and give him the information.” Not
sorry to have an excuse to have a few words with the mystery rider, Dick Pringle
agreed, and they crossed the uneven ground and reached the caravan. In spite of
the warmth of the evening, the doors and windows were all closed. Jack Jenkins
reached up to knock on the door, then paused when a deep voice within declared:
- “You will win! You will win! You will win! Nothing can tire you!” Jenkins
looked at his friend in shocked surprise, then backed away, shaking his head.
“I’m not going to bust in there! Something queer going on. Maybe they want to
be left to themselves,” he muttered, and hurriedly made for the hotel where
they were staying. He was not a nervous man, but for some reason, as he had
stood outside the motor caravan, a sense of fear and foreboding had gripped
him.

The next day’s run was to be along the coast as far as
Sidmouth, and then inland to Exeter. It
would be a greater mileage than the first day’s race. Once again a large crowd
turned out at midday to see
the start. Thirty-six riders lined up for the signal, and behind them was the
usual array of vehicles carrying those who ministered to their wants. Tearaway
Tetford, as the morning papers had called him, was the last to take up his
position. Until the very last moment he had remained in the caravan, shunning
all visitors, refusing to pose for any photos. When he wheeled his machine up
to the start there were murmurs in the crowd, for Tearaway Tetford looked as
though he had not sleep a wink all night. He was pale, his eyes were sunken,
and he walked slowly and stiffly. “We shan’t have much trouble with him today,”
muttered the captain of the L.T.A. team. “It was just a flash in the pan. He
burnt himself out in that one sprint.” While the preliminaries were being
carried through, the black motor van drove off in the direction of Poole.
Tearaway Tetford’s manager did not even trouble to see him start. The signal
was given at last and the cyclists got away in a massed start, but there was no
racing through the town. They were compelled to keep together until open roads
were reached beyond Poole. Only then did
the teams go into action, jockeying for position, trying to give their crack
riders a chance to go ahead. In every village and hamlet little groups of
onlookers turned out to cheer and wave. They looked especially for the wearer
of the Yellow Jersey. They found him at the rear, pedaling along wearily as
though beaten before he had started. Through Wareham swept
the wheeled cavalcade, with some rider or other making an occasional sprint to
try to improve his position. The roads were wet and there was danger of skids.
Nobody took any risks. By the time Dorchester was
reached, the leaders had again sorted themselves out. The Pericles and the
L.T.A. teams had fought two or three duels with no definite result. They were on
the whole very well matched.

The Belgian team was strong and well up in road-race
tactics. His team-mates had agreed to give Bellenger a big chance this day, and
he was saving himself for the right moment. At Dorchester the
leaders were four minutes ahead of Tearaway Tetford, who was still plodding
along at the tail-end of the procession. Not once did he lift his eyes to the
cheering groups who recognised him. But at the bottom of the long hill up from
Winterbourne Abbas the black caravan was standing. The long three-mile climb
was chosen for that day’s hill-climbing “prime,” and officials were there with
their stop-watches. To the astonishment of those who saw him, the wearer of the
yellow Jersey jumped off his
machine and went into the caravan. “He’s retiring already!” muttered someone,
but thirty seconds later Tearaway Tetford was out again, a very different
looking rider. Gone was his languidness. Gone was the dull look in his eyes. He
seemed to be brimming with strength and confidence. He pedaled towards the hill
at high speed, and as he passed the check-point at the bottom he increased his
pace. Half a dozen competitors who were toiling up without much thought of
entering for the “prime”-that is, to reach the top of this chosen hill
first-were astonished to be suddenly passed by someone moving as rapidly as
though they were standing still. Tearaway Tetford’s legs were going like steam
pistons, and the fierceness of his thrust sent his machine along in a series of
lunging jerks. More of those who had got
ahead of him were overtaken, and by the time he had reached the steepest part
of the hill he was well up behind the leaders. On the hill he had made up all
the time he had lost earlier in the race! Jenkins, Payne, and Bellenger, who
were racing one another for the “prime,” heard the whirring of tyres on the wet
road behind them and glanced back in surprise. What they saw caused them to
redouble their efforts. There was the man in the Yellow Jersey almost on top of
them. Once again the lone rider had come up from the rear in record time. Now
he looked like taking the “prime.” Desperately the four leaders put out their
utmost on the final stretch of the hill. Steeper and steeper became the
gradient and one by one they slowed down. Not so Tearaway Tetford. He
maintained the same high speed, never once slowing the revolutions of his
pedals. Sweat poured down his face and bare arms, but this was the only sign he
showed of strain. He shot over the top an easy winner of the “prime,” which
meant he would be credited with extra points. The long slope down into Bridport
lay ahead of him, the road dropping from more than seven hundred feet above sea
level to less than one hundred. It was an ideal stretch for speed, and Tearaway
Tetford went hurtling down it at an ever increasing speed. By the time all the
leaders were over the top and were hurtling down the incline. A succession of
whirring figures on two wheels flashed by the excited onlookers at the
crossroads, but none moved as fast as Tearaway Tetford. None took the risks
that he took. And then, when he was a full mile ahead of anyone else, no more
than two miles out of Bridport, he leaned over too far on a corner and his
wheel shot away from beneath him on the greasy road. It was a vicious skid and
he could do nothing to save himself.

To the horror of the onlookers he smashed into a stone
wall and lay still. His bicycle finished up in the nearby ditch, undamaged.
Jenkins, Payne, and the others saw people lifting the wearer of the Yellow
Jersey as they raced by. They told themselves that was the last they would see of
him that day, and hoped that his injuries were not serious. They knew they were
taking the same risks themselves. Some cottagers carried the unconscious man
into their home, and there his bleeding head was bathed and bandaged. The last
of the competitors flashed by as this was being done, then came the procession
of service vans and attendant vehicles. Foremost amongst these was the black
caravan. It was the small driver in the outsize coat who spotted the black
bicycle leaning against the cottage fence, and shouted incoherently as he
applied the brakes. The stout manager scowled in the direction of the other’s
finger, muttered something under his breath, and bounced down from the front
seat to the road. He ran to the cottage gate and flung it open. “Is Tom Tetford
here?” he demanded. “What’s happened to him?” In spite of his appearance and
his name, there was no trace of foreign accent in Vonder’s speech. A stout
woman told him that the cyclist had been knocked unconscious and that she had
sent for the doctor. “A doctor?” exclaimed Van Vonder. “He does not want a
doctor. I am his manager. Let me see him.” They showed him into the room were
Tearaway Tetford lay on a couch. He was just beginning to stir and open his
eyes. He was groaning a little at the pain in his head. Van Vonder pounced on
him and ran fingers over the bump on his head, then he swung round at the
gaping cottagers. “There is not much wrong with him—nothing that I cannot cure
in two or three minutes,” said Vonder. “Get out of the room and leave us
alone—please!” “What’s he going to do?” muttered the woman as she and her
husband left the room. “That young fellow’s badly hurt. He can’t ride again.”
“S-sh!” hissed her husband. “What are they doing in there? What’s that man
saying over and over again? I wish the doctor would arrive and—” The door of
the parlour was thrown open and out came Tearaway Tetford. His eyes were fixed
straight ahead as though he was sleep-walking. The blood-stained bandage was
still in place around his head, but his stride was firm and purposeful as he
made for the gate and grabbed his racing cycle. Running out into the middle of
the road, he vaulted on to the saddle and pedaled round the corner as if he
were in for a sprint race. “I told you there was very little wrong with him,”
muttered Van Vonder, following more slowly from the parlour. “He is quite able
to continue the race. Thank you for your assistance.”

AN
AMAZING FINISH.

The head of the procession of racing cycles had almost
reached Sidmouth. The last half-hour had been a fierce tussle for position
between Pericles and the Belgian teams. Each had tried to baulk the other while
letting their leaders go ahead. By a series of overlapping sprints, one man
taking up the pacemaking after another, the Belgians had sought to wear down
the Pericles men, who were doing all they could to nurse Jack Jenkins until the
time when he would make his supreme effort. It was on the other side of
Colyford that a Frenchman who had tyre trouble was passed in a flash by a
madly-pedalling figure on an all-black cycle. He just had time to glimpse the
Yellow Jersey worn by the cyclist, then he vanished round a bend in the road.
“It is the unknown British rider, the one who won yesterday!” thought the
startled Frenchman. “They said he was out of this race. What chance does he
think he has of catching up now?” A little farther on the Italians and the
Swiss had begun to jostle one another for position. Some of them were passing
three abreast when an all-black cycle ridden by a figure in the Yellow Jersey
hurtled past them down a steep hill. A little farther on a motorist emerging
from a side road, hurriedly braked in time to avoid collision with a speeding
cyclist in the Yellow Jersey, who scraped across his front bumper and
disappeared down the road towards Sidford and Sidmouth. Three miles out of
Sidmouth he came up with the L.T.A. team, which was just increasing pace with
the intention of challenging the leaders. With them was John Cuthbert, of the
Pericles team, who had strained a muscle and been obliged to drop back. It was
he who heard the whirring of wheels coming up from the rear, and looked round
before shouting: - “Thought someone said Tearaway Tetford was out of the race!
Here he comes!” Hardly had he said this than Tearaway Tetford was level with
the rear man, who sprinted to prevent the wearer of the Yellow Jersey from
passing.

Tetford promptly put on another spurt, cut in ahead of
his challenger and almost put him in the ditch. Then he went after the rest of
the team. Meaning glances passed between them, and they spread out, each man
taking turns to try to run Tetford to exhaustion point. But these tactics
didn’t work. One by one he passed them, and caught up with the tail of the
Pericles team, who were being held back by the tactics of the Belgians, who had
put Bellenger in front. Jack Jenkins glimpsed the dead-white face under the
blood-stained bandage, and nearly fell off his cycle. He had seen those
cottagers lifting the unconscious Tetford, and if ever he had seen a man
completely knocked out of a race it had been then. Yet here was Tearaway
Tetford challenging the leaders! There was now only a mile to go into Sidmouth,
and everyone was recklessly thrusting for openings. Two of the Belgians
collided and went down in a tangle, Jack Jenkins seized the chance to shoot
past and get within thirty yards of Bellenger, who was showing signs of tiring.
Realising that he might yet be beaten, the Belgian forced another sprint. The
two other Belgians barred Tetford’s way. For a moment it looked as though he
would ride straight into them, then he made a sudden swerve, bumped over up the
grass verge at the side of the road. Shot past them, and down on to the road on
the other side. Ahead of him there were now only Bellenger and Jenkins.
Bellenger and Jenkins were riding neck and neck. First one would get a little
ahead, then the other. They were both fully extended, but neither would give
in. To win today would mean a bonus of five minutes on their time, as well as
the honour of wearing the Yellow Jersey. People at the side of the road cheered
madly when they saw Tetford coming up so rapidly. Once again he made the others
appear to be moving slowly. There was something inhuman about the way he drove
that machine along. Surely no ordinary human being could be capable of such a
fast sprint at the end of such a grueling race! Bellenger was cracking. Just
before they reached the Sidmouth check-point Jack Jenkins went ahead of him.
Tearaway Tetford was then only three lengths behind and for the moment he did
not press any harder. They swung north again in the centre of the town, through
cheering crowds. There was still fifteen miles to go to Exeter, and
over hilly roads. Only the superbly fit could hope to keep up this dizzy pace.
Jack Jenkins wished he had not sprinted so soon, then realised that if he had
not done so Tetford would have gone ahead of him. On to the main Exeter road
at last and they were again heading straight into the west wind. Jack Jenkins
felt his heart pounding under the strain. Slowly but surely Tetford was forging
ahead. Each drive at the pedals sent Tearaway Tetford a few inches further than
Jenkins moved. Neither gradient nor traffic slowed the wearer of the Yellow
Jersey. He was like a robot.

There were shouts from the rear, but Jenkins did not
look round. It was Don Payne of the L.T.A. making his bid for leadership.
Jenkins and he fought it out over the next five miles, but the L.T.A. man was
the fresher. It was he who had tailed Tetford all through Parrington and down
into Clyst Vale, but he did not catch the wearer of the Yellow Jersey. A dog
ran across the road right under the front of the leader’s wheel as he entered
the city, but he did not even swerve. His wheel must have touched its tail as
it leapt for its life, and for a moment it looked as though he was off. Somehow
he retained his balance, straightened from a speed wobble, and shot down the
final straight at a speed which brought gasps from the throats of those on the
pavements. Into the cleared square, where the police formed a cordon round the
finishing line, shot the wearer of the Yellow Jersey, and a great shout went up
for the second time in succession Tearaway Tetford, the unknown rider from
nowhere, secured the honours for the day’s run. Somehow he braked to a standstill,
dropped his feet, shut his eyes—and dropped in a dead faint.